What You've Become
by Last-Kiss-of-Damaris
Summary: The quickest way to Brahms is through Silent Hill. Unfortunately, the town doesn't want to let George Sewell go. And nor, it seems, does Murphy. Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Author note: Sequel to 'This isn't Revenge'. I couldn't stop myself from carrying on, lol. Sewell is a lot of fun to write, so... aye, I had to indulge my fangirl urges. Hope you enjoy, and apologies for any mistakes, I'll try to proof-read as thoroughly as I can. But I do sometimes miss stuff. Flashbacks are told in italics ^_^**

_It became apparent rather quickly that whatever Cunningham had in mind to do, it involved being in an area isolated enough that no-one would be around to hear them as she carried out her plans. The thing that confused Sewell was the fact that they had been driving for almost three hours now, during which they had exited the towns and the suburbs, and left all trace of civilisation far behind. Now, only wilderness reflected against the car windows. He had to wonder why she hadn't pulled over already and just gotten it over with._

_ The cuffs she had slapped on his wrists as soon as they were out of the penitentiary nicked at his skin when they passed over a road ditch, and he winced. He stole a quick glance across at her, saw the determined set to her hard features, and then turned to gaze out at the passing trees. His lip still stung like a bitch after his last attempt to make small-talk, he was in no mood to have the other side of it split too. _

_ He thought about how she could have possibly found out that it wasn't Pendleton who was responsible for Frank's condition. Sewell knew for damn sure that he'd cleaned the mess up good enough to be certain that nothing would lead back to him; he'd been framing, bribing, offing, and beating enough during his time at the prison to know how to make a job convincing. So that just left Murphy himself as the leak. Sewell wasn't at all surprised that the man had blabbed that mouth of his, he had been claiming his innocence for a long time, but he was surprised that Cunningham _believed _him. She was as green as they came, the type of woman who saw no grey areas, no compromises, the world was black and white to her, and the justice system was never wrong. So how the fuck had Murphy convinced her otherwise? _

_ "We're here."_

_ Sewell glanced up from his hands and looked around, confused for a moment to find that they were no longer on the road, and parked instead within a clearing. The trees were so thick around them that it was almost impossible to spot the cabin nestled within their shadows, save for the single window shining light brightly upon the carpet of dead leaves and branches. Sewell swallowed hard; through the window he saw that the cabin was far from abandoned. Turning to face Cunningham, he sneered at the smirk she was fixing him with. _

_ Any bitchy remarks he had planned died in his throat when she honked the horn. _

_ "I've got some friends I'd like you to meet, George. You'll recognise them actually, they're simply _dying _to see you again."_

_ Sewell watched, with a growing sense of dread, as the cabin door flew open. The lights from inside flooded the clearing, illuminating each of the three men as they stepped outside and made their way over to the car. Anne exited the vehicle with her gun raised, training it on the group of released cons. She was smart enough to know not to trust them. _

_ Sewell took each of the men in, recognising them all. Over the years he had had various run-ins with the three of them, and whilst it was likely true that they were sore about what had happened to Frank, Sewell doubted very much that they had agreed to this with the same kind of vengeance in mind that Anne had. No, these men were looking for payback for themselves, for the 'wrongs' committed against them. _

_ In the middle stood the largest. A broad, black man with a crew-cut and a distasteful gold tooth. His name was Jackson Hayes, and he was less dangerous than his appearance would have you believe. He had been placed behind bars for conspiring to murder, his sentence had been eighteen years, but he was released after twelve for 'good behaviour and a reformed attitude'. _

_ On Jackson's left stood a short, fat man with a ridiculous moustache and a perpetual look of idiocy on his fat, flushed face. Thomas O'Malley had been an accountant before his stint in prison, the type of man with more money than sense and a greed bigger than his bank balance for even more. After stringing along a bunch of well-pampered whores, the women had eventually gotten tired of being 'the other woman' and aided the police in their investigation into the disappearance of rather a lot of money. In jail, he'd been an obvious target, a prison bitch if ever there was one. And Sewell, being the bitter type of man that he was around these dumb, middle class fucks who earned more than he did, had not made his stay at the penitentiary a pleasant one. Out of all of them, he was probably the one bearing the biggest grudge._

_ And then finally, there was 'Jack-Knife'. A man no-one forgets. Sewell felt himself shake just looking at the brute; his record read like an A-Z of crime, but so too did his connections. The man had only ever been in jail for short stretches at a time, there had always been someone out there, with the right friends, who could get him out early. Half the time he was found not guilty by a jury clearly compromised-and if there was one thing that pissed Sewell off more than rich little fat fucks, it was men with a reputation more intimidating than his own. Sewell was afraid of no-one, or at least that's what the little voice in the back of his head kept on insisting, even as his hands shook and his legs trembled. _

_ If given the choice, he would probably take a bullet through the skull rather than face the night ahead with the three men leering at him from across the clearing. _

_ A tapping against the driver's seat window tore his eyes away from the cons. He looked over at Anne, knocking her hand against the glass whilst her free hand trained the gun on the men. She wasn't about to fuck up around these guys, that was for sure, which Sewell thought was a _damn _shame. _

_ "Get out of the car." she spat._

_ At this point, Sewell couldn't care less about his pride; he was far more concerned with his life. He shook his head. "Fuck you." was his retort. If Anne hadn't put the gun to his head and blown his brains out by now, it was pretty fucking obvious that she lacked the balls to do it. "You want me out of this car, you're gonna have to make me, Sweetheart."_

_ Rage twisted her face into something frightening and ugly. She slammed her hand down on the bonnet and stormed around to his side of the car. Sewell jerked away when she pulled open the door and reached in to grab at his arm, her nails burrowing against his skin and tearing as she tried to pull him out. The cons started to laugh amongst themselves, Thomas looked set to burst as his face pooled red and blossomed with each mad guffaw. _

_ "Fucking move!" Anne demanded._

_ Sewell didn't. _

_ Anne turned to the cons, giggling like schoolgirls with one another. "Get him out of the fucking car!" she yelled. _

_ The three of them grinned at one another before heading over. It was at this point that Sewell decided he'd rather emasculate himself and look like a pussy than stick around to find out what their plans for him entailed. Using the fact that Anne had her attention fixed on the approaching men and was currently distracted, he tore free of her talon-like grip and shoved by her. She fell hard on her back, her legs and arms flailing in surprise as he ran by her towards the thick lining of trees. By the time she had righted herself enough to aim, Sewell was was already darting and weaving behind each thick trunk of the woods. _

_ The first discharge of the gun veered off far to his left, hitting nothing but air. The second hit bark and twigs to his right. He heard the third shot hit another nearby tree, but even over that he heard the thundering of chasing feet and knew that he wasn't going to get out of this. _

_ A rough hand on his shirt and a fist against the back of his skull confirmed as such. _

_ Sewell grunted and fell heavily upon the dead leaves at his feet. The taste of blood filled his mouth when his chin hit hard earth and his teeth caught tongue and lip, tearing both. That same hand that had knocked him down tugged and pulled until he was lying on his back and looking up towards what should have been the stars, but seeing the brutish face of Jack-Knife instead. Over the con's shoulder, Sewell saw the other two running over, and behind them there was Anne. _

_ "I don't want you to kill him." she said, her voice firm. _

_Thomas looked over at her, bushy brows arched high towards what was left of his hair. Sewell might have laughed at the comical expression of incredulity he wore, but his mouth tasted too much of blood and all he could manage was a grimace. _

_ "After what he's done to us," began Thomas with that stupid Souther drawl of his, "it's gonna be hard not to get carried away, you understand?" _

_ Anne glared at him. "_Don't _kill him." she repeated. _

_ Thomas puffed out his chest, trying to look hard and intimidating, despite the fact that Anne was the one with the gun pointed between his eyes. "What'll you do if we _do _kill the sonuvabitch?" he asked. _

_ "Well, I guess I'll have to call this whole arrangement off and have you taken back to fucking jail. How does that sound?"_

_ Jack-Knife pushed his hands against Sewell's shoulders, pushing him back into the damp, cold earth. Brittle leaves splintered and cracked under the pressure. He looked back over his shoulder at her. "Why do you want 'im alive?" he asked. There was no demand to his tone, no accusation, he simply sounded curious. Sewell was kind of wondering the same thing himself. _

_ "I want him to suffer." was her immediate answer. "I want him to hurt every hour of every day for the rest of his life. I want him to be reminded every morning when he wakes up, and every night before he goes to bed. I want him to know how my dad felt."_

_ Jack-knife smirked. "Oh, I'm sure we boys can manage that." he sneered. "We'll make sure he has a night he'll never forget."_

_ Sewell didn't doubt it. _

(George)

(Hey, hey, George)

"Wake up."

A hand shook his shoulder roughly, and George Sewell awoke with a start. The hand retracted and he looked up, blinking the remnants of sleep away. One of his co-workers, 'Richie' Gobson stood over him, an almost apprehensive look on his young, acne-scarred face. He took a step back, as though frightened that he was about to be mauled.

"... the fuck d'you want, kid?" asked Sewell once the room had stopped spinning and he remembered where he was.

"Uh, sorry to wake you, but, um, well, you fell asleep, and..."

Sewell stared at him. "And?" he prompted.

"Well... lunch is over... and... you were sleeping..."

Sewell stretched back, his shoulders creaking and popping with the strain. After a moment he got to his feet. Richie was still staring at him, eyes wide and terrified. It was just the boost to his ego that he needed, and he turned to face the kid fully. "I appreciate you waking me up an' all, Sugar," he said, "but if you do it again, I'll have your fuckin' balls. You got that?"

Richie nodded fervently, and then fled the room. He had been working at the penitentiary no more than two months, which was one month and two weeks longer than Sewell had figured he'd make. The kid was a pretentious little shit, and the sooner he figured out that same pay-rate didn't mean same rank, the better his life would be here.

Stretching again, Sewell brushed a hand through his hair, frowning when several strands fell before his eyes. He slicked them back into place and exited the staff-room. He'd be lying if he said he felt better after his snooze. Truth be told, he was more afraid of what his dreams brought these days than what he was of-well, of anything.

Down the hall, he saw Richie sprinting towards a couple of other officers who had taken him under their wing. No doubt the three of them would share stories about what a 'big, horrible bastard that Sewell was' after their shift was done and they were hitting it back in a local bar somewhere. Sewell smiled to himself; he may not be the man he was three years ago, but his reputation had never faltered; he was George Sewell, hardest fucking screw at Ryall State Penitentiary, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone forget that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author note: Thank you so much for the reviews, and the faves, I really appreciate the feedback and support. This chapter is really short, but I hope it reads OK 3**

It was close to 1:00AM by the time Sewell managed to clock off for the night. A few other officers passed him by, their shoulders hunching when the cold, winter air hit their exposed flesh out in the parking lot. They exchanged their usual pleasantries, smiling and laughing to one another about the awful weather as they settled keys into car doors and sidled into the warmth of their vehicles before driving off, leaving silence and a strange emptiness in their wake. Sewell stood for a moment in the foyer, ignoring the way the woman at reception kept glancing up at him with an annoyed furrow of her thick, greying brows, and just stared out at the empty yard with a strange feeling of unease gathering in the pit of his stomach.

He took out his cellphone and pushed the heavy doors open to the winds, letting in a refreshing gust of ice cold air that startled the receptionist and brought a smug little grin to his mouth when she cried out in dismay at the drop in temperature. Pulling his jacket taught against himself, he brushed his thumb over the 'on' button of his phone and waited. The screen flashed blue seconds later, and whilst it took its sweet time loading possible calls or messages, he succumbed to his paranoia and double-checked his left and right sides. The little voice at the back of his head whispered dreadful and endless possibilities, feeding the fire, but he saw no-one. He was alone.

Satisfied that Cunningham wasn't lurking in the shadows, he turned to his phone, his eyes growing wide when he saw that someone had called him seventeen times over the course of the last two hours. Hell, that was more calls than he'd received in his life-time. When he noticed just _who _it was that had been so desperate to get a hold of him, he knew he was in for something of a long night. His fingers edged towards the redial option, but apparently his little brother was still just as determined to get through; the parking lot blared into life under the obnoxious drone of a butchered version of Fantasie Impromptu.

Sewell accepted the call.

'What's wrong?' was the question he had intended to ask, but what came out instead was "How did you get this number?"

There was an exhale on the other end, followed by the steady slew of incomprehensible background noise. When seconds rolled by with nothing but shaky breathing for a response, Sewell thought of addressing the question again. He opened his mouth, lips forming around the words-

"I-I'm sorry, George..." came the exhausted voice of David Sewell. "I tried to-to-to call you earlier, I've been trying for the past couple of h-hours." In the background din, he sounded small, inconsequential, much like his character. Another stuttering gasp of air crackled down the poor line, "It's _mom_!"

Sewell found himself heading towards his car, his stride stiff and awkward, his mind blank, stunned. On his brother's end, David fought to regulate his breathing, fighting back the sobs and the gasps. Over that, the din was starting to gather some coherence; Sewell could hear people shouting and people crying, the sound of automatic doors opening and closing with severe regularity, the buzz of calls being put on hold, and the friendly pleasantries of calls being answered. David was phoning him from a hospital.

"Christ, she-she's-oh God-"

At his car now, Sewell found himself leaning against it for support. He knew what was coming; he knew _exactly _what his brother was trying to say.

"She's _dead_, George."

It wasn't so much a wave as it was a _tsunami _of feelings that hit him, none of which were particularly prominent as he let his legs guide him unsteadily downwards until he was sitting on damp gravel with his head against the side of the car and trying to make sense of how he felt at the news of his mother's passing.

The wind picked up, bringing with it the first spots of rain. The gentle patter of it against the hood of his car chorused together with the sounds of the hospital and his brother's laboured breathing. He tried to think of something to say, knowing that David was likely waiting for a response, but his throat was dry and his mouth felt like cotton. He gaped once, twice, working the muscles. He didn't know. Christ, he didn't know how he was _supposed_ to feel. He felt a little bit of everything; anger, distress, sorrow, confusion, betrayal, it was all there; buzzing frantically around in his skull and the tips of his fingers as he continued to work his mouth in hopes of creating a sound. His temple began to throb and ache.

"... How did it happen?" he managed to croak, his voice an octave higher than his usual drawl.

David sighed, steadying himself. When he answered, he sounded almost calm, "She's been sick," he explained, "for the last six years-"

Betrayal fought for prominence, but it was anger which coursed through Sewell's veins, setting his temper alight. "_Six years_!" he yelled. "Why the fuck are you calling me _now_! Why didn't you tell me sooner, you son of a bitch! _Why didn't you tell me she was dying!_"

There was a pause, and now both of them were breathing heavily.

Sewell fought against his own emotions, his eyes tightened shut at the first tell-tale stab. He _refused _to shed tears over this, over any of them. They'd cut him from their life over ten years ago now. Even when he had been hospitalised after the night with Anne and her 'friends', only David had come to visit him; his parents hadn't even asked after him. No, they didn't deserve his tears. They didn't _deserve _his sorrow.

"I'm sorry, George," David's voice whispered to him.

Sewell bit at his lip. He felt something wet slide down his cheeks. He blamed it on the rain.

"... Are you still there? Please, please, George, I'm _so _sorry. I, what can I say? You _know _how it is, how it's been with them and you, I couldn't... I just, I just wanted to keep out of it.

"... George?"

Sewell drew in a gasp. "... Yes," he murmured, "yeah, I'm still here."

"Thank you... _thank you_..." Another intake of breath. In the background, a woman was demanding to see someone's superior. "Listen, I've spoken to dad about, well, about making funeral arrangements. I said that I wanted you to be involved, that mom would have wanted that."

(What a pile of shit)

"We're supposed to start calling people up tomorrow, and, uh, discussing any plans the family has for her burial or... or, um, cremation. I know Aunt Sylvia wants her cremated, but I'm not happy about that, and I know dad isn't, so we need to, um, we need to talk about all of these things before we go ahead with anything. Will you, will you please come?"

The first response that sprang to mind was 'fuck you', followed quite closely by 'you asshole', but he had never found it easy to be angry with David. He fully understood why his brother had kept quiet about a lot of things; he had his own problems to worry about without getting himself involved in more. So, with an ease that surprised Sewell, he saved his brother the hassle of an argument and waited three beats before trusting himself to say something civil. "Where are you..?" was his eventual response.

"What, uh, I'm at the hospit-"

"_No_, where are you _living_?" said Sewell with a frown. "Where the fuck do you live these days?"

"Oh... we never moved. Um, we're still in Brahms, same house... same everything." He managed a meek chuckle at that. Sewell was silent. He was aware of a number of old, _old _feelings stirring within him as he held the conversation. Just talking to David was dredging up memories and a time in his life that he'd rather keep locked away and forgotten for the rest of his natural days.

Fat load of good reconciliation would do any of them now that one of offending parties was dead.

"So you'll come?" asked David, sounding ridiculously hopeful. "It would really mean a lot to me-to us, _all _of us if you-"

"I don't really give a shit what it means to _them_!" hissed Sewell, before he could stop himself. "But... if you want me to be there then, I guess, I'll come along." he added after a moment, sounding uncharacteristically soft and apologetic.

"Thank you, George. I can't do this alone. Dad is, well, I don't even fucking know what's going on with him. He's just, he's not been himself for a while now, and Aunt Sylvia's gonna be breathing down my neck about this cremation. Not to mention the shit I'm going through with..." he caught himself, tailing off with a sudden grunt. "Well, you know how it is," he said instead, starting again, "it's just not a nice thing to have to deal with alone."

"Well, I'll be there." said Sewell. His eyes were beginning to burn. Reluctantly, he opened them, he could see spots dancing around in the parking lot. That bitchy receptionist was staring at him through one of the foyer windows, shaking her head with a frown.

"I can't thank you enough for this, George. I mean it... well, I'll have the spare room sorted out for you, so you'll have a place to crash if this goes on a little longer than expected. Um, I'm gonna have to get going now, Cathy's going to be wondering where I am. I'll call you again in the morning, all-"

With a brush of his thumb, Sewell disconnected the call. He didn't think he could deal with half-hearted goodbyes on top of everything else. The sound of rain replaced the hectic droning of the hospital, and in the distance the sound of cars and civilisation and _life_. The wind continued to pick up, getting heavier and harsher as it ghosted over the bonnet of his car, whistling as it went. His hair danced before his eyes in the gust, but it was blurred and unfocused behind a sheet of tears. A sheet of tears now spilling down his face even as he dug the heel of his hands into his eyes and willed them away.

"Fuck!" he cursed. "Fuck, _fuck, fuck_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes: Aw wow, I felt extremely uncomfortable writing certain bits to this chapter, but it's pretty much essential to the plot, so... ehhh. Warnings for semi-explicit non-con. Once again, thank you for the faves and the reviews, I can't tell you how happy it makes me that there are people out there that are enjoying this. Again, sorry if there are any mistakes! Hope this chapter was worth the wait!**

Despite Sewell's expectations to the contrary, Murphy was not waiting for him when he opened the door to his house and flooded the living room with light. The sofa was just as empty as he had left it, and upon examination of his kitchen-more specifically his freezer-he found that nothing had been taken.

It had been two weeks since the supposed dead man had let himself into his house, stole his pizza, and then casually put his hands on him, and since that night Sewell had been unable to think of anything else. Instead of looking back on what had occurred between them and grimacing, his stomach fluttered with anticipation and a deep yearning to have the man's hands on him again.

He rubbed at his sore eyes and made his way back out of the kitchen to collapse heavily upon the sofa. As much as it galled him to admit it, he wanted Murphy's company-tonight especially. Sewell knew how pathetic it was, that somehow Murphy had turned into the closest thing he had to a friend. The guy wanted him dead, had told him so in as many words, and yet Sewell was quite unable to think of him with anything but a strange, rare kind of fondness.

Turning onto his side, Sewell buried his head into the cushions as he drew his knees into himself. He could sleep for years, and if it wasn't for the dread creeping through him when he thought about what tomorrow would bring, he would have given up the fight without a struggle and just let himself drift off. But if he slept, morning would only rear its head that much quicker. The thought of driving to Brahms, seeing the family that had all but excluded him, and going back to the house where he had grown up-he would probably choose a beating over it if given the choice.

There was always the option of _not _going, of course, but that would just make him feel all that much more of a coward, and if the last three years had taught him anything, it was that he needed to man the fuck back up and stop jumping at his own shadow. He wasn't about to run away, not this time, not ever. He was stronger than that, and whatever sordid memories he found himself faced with when he reached his home-town, he would deal with them like he had dealt with everything in his life.

With his eyelids fluttering and regular intervals of macro-sleeps to coax him, Sewell gave in to temptation and slept.

_Sewell was a broken, bloodied mess on the cabin floor. Every stuttered and desperate gasp for air an excruciating endeavour; his left arm hung oddly at his side, dislocated and likely broken in several places, the joint where it had been pulled out of place felt like razor blades under the skin; one eye was swollen shut, the other so caked with blood that everything he saw was through a red filter; ribs had definitely been broken, each breath seemed to rattle them like loose change in a glass jar. But he hurt the very most at his hips, where the bones didn't just feel fractured, they felt _crushed_. _

_ He blinked away the blood, ignoring the way more of it just trailed down his forehead to cling at his lashes before splashing back upon his eye, making him hiss at the sting, and then groan when his ribs protested. The cons were huddled together in the far corner, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. _

_ Anne had long since gone, telling the cons that she'd be waiting back up on the road for them to 'drop him off' once they had had their fun with him. _

_ O'Malley kept looking back over his fat shoulder, a dark leering expression on his round face. As they carried on discussing whatever it was that they were going out of their way to be so hush-hush about, Sewell took a shuddering breath, braced himself, and then tried to move. It was a decision he instantly regretted when a hundred little knives stabbed at him from under his skin, sending liquid fire down his entire body. He tried to clench his mouth around the verbal outburst of pain that he felt fighting for escape past his swollen throat, but it was useless and the cabin was filled quite suddenly with his stuttering whimper. _

_ He'd never wished for the earth to just swallow him up as much as he did then. Wincing, he squeezed his good eye closed and prayed that his body would just give in already and pass out. But apparently, his brain hated him more than the ex-cons did, for when he felt a boot press lightly against his chest and roll him onto his back, he was still very much awake and felt every little inch of himself lock up with the pain. _

_ When he opened his eye again, O'Malley was standing over him, a horrid little smirk on his bulbous face. Sewell noticed Jack-Knife messing around with a radio over the fat ex-con's shoulder, then the cabin was aloud with _Duran Duran _singing _Hungry Like The Wolf_. _

_ There was a coiling of dread in the pit of Sewell's stomach as O'Malley continued to leer down at him. _

_ "People _fucked _me in that prison," said O'Malley, "an' you let 'em. I was a prison bitch because o' you. So now, now I'm goin' to make you _my _bitch."_

_ In a flash, O'Malley was dragging him up. Sewell's eyes went wide and he struggled under the man's hold on him, but each jerk and and twist he attempted just made the pain that much more intolerable, until he was wheezing and gasping, face down on the work-bench with a fat hand pinning his face against the wood. The edge of the bench brushed against his ruined hips as he tried to scramble forwards and away, and if it hadn't been for the obnoxiously loud droning of the radio, the cabin would have been filled instead with the pitiful whine he released when O'Malley shoved him back down, pressing broken ribs and bruised flesh hard against the dusty surface. _

_ He tried to twist his head out from under the heavy hand on his crown, to look back over his shoulder, but it held firm. _

_ And then the other hand went to work unbuckling his belt. _

_ That previous coiling of dread blossomed into outright terror when it hit Sewell exactly what O'Malley was planning on doing to him. _

_ Sewell's desperate plea of 'don't' fell on death ears. _

_ "Hey, uh, hey man..." it was Jackson. Sewell could see the look of conflict on his face, and his heart literally _jumped_ because Jackson was the biggest, and easily the strongest and he really didn't look like he was comfortable with this, he could put an end to it. He struggled again, ignoring the way his dislocated arm shrieked and his ribs and hips burned. O'Malley pushed him back down with ease. _

_ "I, uh, I didn't sign up for this , man," Jackson went on. He looked down at Sewell, genuine pity in his eyes as he regarded the damage that had been wreaked upon him. "I ain't sayin' he didn't deserve _some _o' that shit, but," and then he gestured to O'Malley, who still had his free hand on Sewell's belt, "this? This is sick, man. I ain't up for this, I'm not."_

_ Behind him, Jack-Knife snickered. _

_ O'Malley ignored them both for a long moment, returning his attention instead back to Sewell's belt. When he was met with another feeble struggle, he used his greater weight and (currently) greater strength to force the man's hips hard into the work-bench, stilling him instantly. The belt finally came free, clattering loudly to the floor. _

_ "If you don't like it," said O'Malley to Jackson as he started to toy with the buttons on Sewell's trousers, "you know exactly where the door is. You can leave at any time."_

_ "Tom-" _

_ O'Malley whirled around, "This is about revenge!" he snarled. "I spent years getting' fucked over 'cause o' this prick right here!" He jerked his hand, buttons and zipper squawked in protest but came free all the same, and then the black fabric was falling past trembling thighs to pool around weak ankles. O'Malley wasted no time in dipping his fingers into the waistband of Sewell's underwear. "I'm just returnin' the fuckin' favour."_

_ Sewell groaned when he was exposed. He had found himself in a lot of situations over the years that he didn't particularly like, but this was the first time in his life that he had ever felt well and truly helpless. He jolted when O'Malley's hand touched his bare skin, and tried again to struggle free, fighting not only against the grip on his hip but his own broken body as it refused to comply. But then Jack-Knife was suddenly crouching next to his head, having sprang up from the floor to join them, and his hands went to Sewell's shoulders, pressing him back down against dust and cold wood and keeping him there. _

_ Now with both hands free, O'Malley went to work ridding himself of his jeans and underwear._

_ For a brief few seconds, there was only music, but then Sewell heard it; the unmistakeable sound of skin against skin as O'Malley worked himself to full mast. His stomach lurched. _

_ Clammy flesh was pressed flush against his ass as hands returned to his hips. Sewell kicked out, his aim clumsy and off and hitting nothing but air. When he tried to clamp his legs back together instead, he felt fat, soft flesh obstructing him, obscene and sordid against his inner thigh. Thick fingers pried him apart, spreading him open. Sewell reached up with his good arm, aiming for Jack-Knife, but the ex-con just batted his hand away before promptly pressing a boot upon his fingers, rendering it as useless as his broken one. _

_ "I'll fucking kill you!" he spat. "I'll find you and I'll kill you!"_

_ It was pitiful how all he had left were empty threats. But to just lay there and take it... Sewell couldn't do that, he couldn't _not _fight. _

_ Above him, Jack-Knife ruffled a hand through his hair in mock-tenderness, chuckling. But Sewell pain no attention, because O'Malley was shuffling around behind him, getting into position. He spat into his hand, rubbing it along his cock, coating it, and then, with one violent _push, _he buried himself as deep as he could get within the unyielding body beneath him. _

_ The sound Sewell made as he was breached filled the entire cabin, a broken yelp of pain and anguish and _anger _. He tried to scramble away from the intrusion as stuttering cries spluttered relentlessly from his mouth, but O'Malley just gripped his hips harder and dragged him back to meet every thrust. _

_ As O'Malley set an unforgiving pace, it was the radio that drowned under the sounds of pleased grunts, and breathless gasps of 'don't', and 'fucking kill you'. _

_ Jack-Knife rested his hand back in Sewell's hair, damp with blood and perspiration. He stroked his fingers softly over the crown, raking them down to the nape of his neck in time to each of O'Malley's thrusts. Sewell didn't even try to jerk away, he could hear himself whimpering and choking each time O'Malley forced their bodies together, but it didn't matter any more; he couldn't stop the noises from tumbling out, and by this point he recognised only burning humiliation and the feeling of being torn. His pride had already been conquered. A voice whispered gently in the back of his mind, telling him that it would be easier if he relaxed his body. He hissed and clamped down instead,trying in vain to force the ex-con out. But instead of pained grunts, O'Malley whined with appreciation._

_ "God, he-he's tighter than any woman I've been with." he gasped, then he was quickening the pace, pulling Sewell's body taught against him, determined to get deeper. Suddenly the angle was changed and Sewell was hit with a flush of _something_. The way Sewell suddenly jerked and winced under him, mouth open around a silent 'o' did not fail to grab O'Malley's attention "Feels like he's suckin' me in!" he appraised with a smirk. _

_ Jack-Knife's finers slipped under the collar of Sewell's drenched work shirt to whisper along his trembling spine. When he felt him tense up, as though to struggle again, he knocked his other hand hard against the back of his head, warning him. Every time O'Malley thrust into him, his shoulders jumped and twitched, and Jack-Knife was suddenly struck with a curiosity to see how the man looked. He grabbed tufts of black hair and dragged his head up from the work-bench. _

_ What he saw made his cock twitch. _

_ "What-what's he look like?" asked O'Malley breathlessly. _

_ Sewell tried to pull away, to duck his head back down, Jack-Knife just twisted the fist in his hair until he was forced to look back over his shoulder at the ex-con currently violating him. "Your big pecker made him cry." said Jack-Knife with a smile in his voice. _

_ There was nothing he could do to hide how wet his eyes were, or how there was a zig-zag of clean down his cheeks where the blood had been washed away. He had cried only a handful of times in his life, most of which when he had been a child or a sullen teenager. The fact that these ex-cons could see such a weakness in him now felt strangely more like a violation than anything else done to him that night. He bore his teeth, stained red. "I will bury you," he hissed, keeping his good eye trained on O'Malley even as the man continued to jerk into him. "I will fucking _bury_ you!" _

_ O'Malley just smirked. _

_ Sewell was pushed back against the work-bench, he went down with no resistance; the damage had already been done. He could tell by the way O'Malley's breathing was coming that the man was nearly finished; the thought made him feel nauseas. Closing his eye, he pictured the three of them in the darkness and planned exactly what he would do to each of them when this nightmare was over. He would cut O'Malley's dick off and feed it to him, but not before ramming a red-hot fire poker up the fat fuck's ass. He would break every single bone in Jack-Knife's body before shooting him and leaving him to bleed out. And Jackson..?_

_ With some effort, Sewell managed to roll his head to the side. He saw Jackson standing near the cabin door, his shoulders hunched and his back turned to the proceedings. Yeah, Sewell decided, he'd kill Jackson too, but he'd be a little nicer and give the fucker a quicker death than the other two. _

_ "Don't cum in his ass!" said Jack-Knife suddenly. _

_ O'Malley went still. "What?" he asked, sounding dazed. _

_ "Don't cum in his ass. D.N.A, idiot!" _

_ "Well what the fuck should I do?"_

_ Sewell might have laughed if he wasn't so utterly ruined; the thought of reporting any of this was laughable._

_ "Go and finish yourself over there or something." said Jack-Knife, pointing over to a dark corner of the cabin. O'Malley cursed under his breath, but he pulled out all the same. Sewell grimaced at the sudden ache and burn that greeted the emptiness. _

_ When Jack-Knife brushed his hand through his hair again before gently bringing his face up to lock eyes, Sewell knew that it wasn't over. "Now it's my turn." he whispered in the shell of his ear. _

_When it was over, O'Malley and Jack-Knife were the first to leave. Jackson, however, very gently and very carefully urged Sewell away from the work-bench and tried to get him to stand. The explosion of pain both in his hip and down his spine sent him tumbling unceremoniously to the floor, or it would have had Jacskon not caught him under his arms and lifted him up. Sewell didn't even have the energy to cry out when his dislocated arm jostled above Jackson's big, strong hands keeping him aloft. _

_ Resting him gingerly against the workbench, Jackson made sure Sewell was decent, pulling the man's trousers back up his hips, and then he just stared down at him for a moment, and Sewell saw honest to God regret on that face. And pity. Sewell sneered, turning away; he was not a fucking victim. _

_ Jackson frowned as he slid an arm around Sewell's waist and guided him out of the cabin. His legs turned to jelly as soon as the cold air hit him and he fell to his knees, emptying his stomach as the night's events well and truly sank in. _

_ After that, he didn't remember much of anything. He didn't remember being eased onto the backseat of Cunningham's car, nor did he remember how she had dumped him in the parking lot of the nearest hospital before driving off. He didn't remember any of that, but he did remember the agony of waking up, and the humiliation, and the desperate desire for the earth to just swallow him up, because dying would be a whole lot preferable to how he felt when nurses passed him with their soft faces full of pity and compassion each time their eyes landed on him. _

_ He wasn't a victim. And as soon as he was up and walking again, he was going to track those sons of bitches down and pay them back in full..._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Urgh, I wrote this straight up on the computer without writing it by hand first, so it's a little bit fragmented and not as heavily edited as usual, so I apologize for this chapter. I hope it reads alright though. Thank you all again for the reviews and faves, I really appreciate them and hope you continue to enjoy this story ^_^**

* * *

It took Sewell five hours to run out of excuses in delaying the inevitable trip to Brahms. Work had been informed of his mother's passing as soon as he'd opened his eyes and found his phone; they'd given him their sympathies and told him to take as long as he needed. After checking his bag close to ten times, he had come to the decision that yes, yes his toothbrush was indeed in there and that it hadn't magically wandered off. So his bag was packed, he had sorted things out with work; he had showered; he had shaved, then dressed; he had eaten; and then he had sat around for a good few hours and tried to come up with more excuses. Upon failing that, he had finally exited the house, locking up after himself.

A neighbour across from him flashed him a friendly smile, and a 'terrible weather, isn't it?' as he rolled his eyes up to the heavens, thick and heavy with dark clouds and the threat of rain. Sewell tugged his coat tighter to himself and returned the smile and an awkward nod of response. He fumbled around for his car keys, his fingers (perhaps deliberately) failing to find a grip on them. It was close to noon, the drive to Brahms would take several hours and due to the winter, it would be dark by the time he arrived unless he got a move on sharpish. He wasn't sure why it bothered him to arrive in his home-town during the night hours, but it did, and it was this thought that finally spurred him on.

He pulled out the keys, unlocked the door, and got inside just as the sky opened up and the rain came lashing down.

* * *

The roads were empty and sullen the further along he journeyed, the rain coming down hard and heavy against the gravel as the clouds in the distance darkened and threatened to storm. Sewell glanced down at his phone, jumping with each uneven mile the car passed. He was somewhat surprised that David hadn't called him up yet to check that he was on the way. He thought about what his little brother and the rest of the family might be doing, what they'd be discussing, and how his father might have reacted to the news that his outcast of a first-born was heading his way.

The last time he had seen his dad was to give him the beating of his life. After that, well, most of the family were somewhat reluctant to invite him to dinner parties. Not that Sewell was complaining, he'd never really gotten along all that much with any of them. Sure, there was David, who-even now-he'd do anything for. David's bitch of a wife had been O.K right up until the point that he'd caught her screwing around with some guy from her work, then he'd found it hard to see Catherine as anything other than a money-grubbing whore. She had managed to redeem herself a little with her upbringing of Benny, David was clueless as a parent, but Catherine knew enough about it to make a decent kid out of the boy.

Sewell shook his head, he didn't want to start thinking about Benny; thinking about the kid was just asking to open the floodgates. He turned his thoughts to Murphy instead. Murphy who-even after his 'death' had been posted in the obituaries-had still found his way into Sewell's vacant wanderings, both before his surprise visit and after. Although it was fair to say that after the events that had transcribed between the two of them recently, the mindless musings had become somewhat filthier and more... depraved in nature. Sewell wasn't exactly unhappy about that (although he suspected he probably should be). In fact, he found it to be something of a blessing to have a pleasant sexual experience to look back on, and not... the other.

He shook his head again as he squirmed in his seat, feeling very uncomfortable with the way his brain seemed to want to remind him of the cons and Anne and what they all did that night _every single second_ of his waking life.

Taking a left turn down a narrow, country road, Sewell glanced again to his phone. He'd always kept David's number, despite any lack of intention of making conversation with him during the last few years. It was just something he felt that he _should _do. He reached down and picked up his cell, his fingers fumbling almost nervously as they scrolled through the (minimal) list of contacts stored on it. He stared at his brother's name for a moment, and then bit the bullet.

It didn't even ring twice before David's voice answered. "Hello."

Sewell chewed at his lip. "Hey," he murmured, "you didn't call, so I, ah, thought I'd check up... on things." The other line was abuzz with background chatter, one of the female voices pinched and snootish; Catherine. She was pissed off about something.

"Oh," said David, "yeah, sorry about-about that. I , uh, I meant to call you earlier than this, just, well, things have been hectic here."

"Yeah, I thought that might be the case." said Sewell, well aware of how awkward he sounded as he tried to make conversation. It was a novelty in itself that he was _trying, _it wasn't often that Sewell found himself talking with someone he felt warranted effort on his part. "Do you still need me to come over-I'm heading over anyway, but I know it's gonna be late, and..."

"No, no," said David quickly, "I want you to come. I, Jesus, I want things to move on. As bad as it sounds, maybe this is what'll bring the family back together. Life's short and all that, you know?"

Sewell's immediate response to that was a flush of anger and indignation; he had no reason to make apologies. He waited a beat before responding-he really didn't want to upset his brother. He settled for an entirely unconvincing: "Yeah... maybe."

David seemed to realise that he was treading on thin ice with that topic; he cleared his throat (a sign that he was going to lighten up his tone and change the subject), and asked, "Which way are you coming?"

Sewell glanced to his left at the road signs. "Quickest way is through Silent Hill, isn't it?" he asked, not entirely sure himself. On the other end, Catherine's voice grew louder; she was screeching about something. Sewell thought he heard her mention Benny, but it was hard to tell over the chorus of tires hitting gravel and rain pounding against metal. A glimmer of optimism warmed the pit of his stomach when it dawned on him that he might actually get to see his nephew today for the first time in years. Maybe braving his home-town wouldn't be as fucking terrifying as he first thought.

"Yeah, it takes about an hour and a half off the journey. Where are you now?"

According to the road sign, he was about thirty miles away from Silent Hill.

"I'm about forty minutes away from Silent Hill. Even with the short-cut, I'll probably be rollin' in to Brahms late. That's OK with you, right?"

"Of course. Dad's coming over later, we're gonna talk a little about funeral arrangements, but I can fill you in on what you miss. Or, um, if you want, Cathy and I can go around to his? I know you don't want to see him, so I can always leave a key under the bin on the backyard, you can let yourself in if we're not back. It's up to you."

It was _very _tempting to opt for the latter option, tempting enough that Sewell was already forming his lips around the words when his manhood gave him a swift kick in the balls and reminded him that he needed to score quite a few brownie points for his masculinity after everything that had been done to knock it down these last few years.

"It's fine, you don't have to go out of your way for me."

"Um, it's really no trouble." said David. "In fact, it's probably a better idea if we-"

"I'm not gonna go for him again, David," said Sewell, annoyed at his brother's implication that he couldn't keep his temper in check. He allowed himself a smirk, "I'll behave myself."

"When have _you _ever behaved yourself?" retorted David with a laugh.

Sewell's own smile broadened. "I only ever got in trouble trying to keep you out of it." he joked.

The responding laugh was enough to make Sewell feel entirely at ease with everything; it had been too long since he'd bantered with anyone, and much longer still since he'd been able to carry a pleasant conversation with one of the few people he actually gave a shit about. If he thought about it, yes-it was ever so slightly out of order that he should be joking around not even a day after hearing about his mother's passing, but right now he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. He'd mourn for her (maybe) at the funeral, until then, he was rather enjoying himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I was the bad one, I admit it," said David, the laughter in his voice making him sound ten years younger. "but you led me astray. You and your buddies."

"Bullshit, I can pull that excuse to pieces right now, kiddo. _A, _I didn't have any friends-"

David's laugh grew louder.

"and _B, _well... actually, I only have the A right now, I'll get back to you on the B." He paused, then grinned to himself, "No, I think the A was good enough all on its own. My A tore your argument to shreds."

"Yeah, OK, I submit. I've got nothing to defend myself with on that. I was a bad kid. Now I'm a boring, middle-aged loser with a mortgage and a wild kid of my own. Funny how things work out, right?"

At the mention of his nephew, Sewell's mood dampened considerably. He debated with himself momentarily about whether or not to breach the subject; asking about Benny was like pouring salt on an open wound. It took him all of two seconds to decide that yes, it was worth dredging up the ugly past to find out about the kid.

He cleared his throat. "How is Benny anyway?"

David's answering exhale was enough of an indication that the kid wasn't alright at all.

"Off the rails would be putting it lightly."

Sewell couldn't ignore the way his chest seemed to seize up. He had always been close to his nephew. Back when things between the family had been civil, the kid would spend every Friday and Saturday over at his and he'd help him with his homework and take him to the local ballgames; he had _doted _on the boy.

He still did.

"There's just no talking to him. Cathy used to be able to get through to him, but now he just ignores her like he ignores me. I sometimes think about how he might have turned out if things hadn't fucked up so much between all of us, and you were still involved..."

Sewell found it hard to imagine himself being a good influence on anyone, but he'd always done his best to be _someone else _for Benny. He found that he agreed with David, as surprising as it was, he didn't think the kid would have turned out quite so bad if they had stayed in touch all these years.

"But it's no use worrying about that now, right? Can't change what's already happened."

"Listen, David, I could try talking to him at the funeral-"

"No point. He said he isn't coming."

Sewell didn't know if he was surprised or not. "Well, does he still live with you?"

"Some days, yeah." answered David. "But most of the times I don't know where he is. Probably getting high with his fucking-sorry, I'm getting, uh, worked up here. Just, just gimme a sec."

"No, hey, it's alright. Look, we'll talk about this properly when I get to Brahms, O.K? It's probably not the best conversation to be having on the phone anyway."

David sighed. "That'd be better," he admitted, "who knows, maybe you'll have better luck getting through to him. He always used to listen to you anyway."

"Alright then, we'll sort this out later."

At the next junction, Sewell ended the conversation with his brother and turned the car left. By now, the storm that had threatened the horizon earlier was hanging overhead, bleeding black and grey into the clouds as the rain lashed down heavier than ever.

Squinting through the darkness, Sewell took note of the signs littering the road:

_ Next exit, _

_ Silent Hill._

Brahms was that little bit closer, and as he thought about his home-town and Benny, Sewell couldn't help but feel like the future was starting to look up.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I am SO sorry that this took so long to update. I have really struggled with this chapter and I completely despise it even after all the changes (and there were many), so I apologize in advance for this chapter. Also, sorry for any errors encountered. **

* * *

Approaching the outskirts of Silent Hill, it was at this point that Sewell decided to break the silence with some music. It was a decision he would later very much regret.

He twisted the dials of the car radio, hearing nothing but static as he searched through the stations. The occasional ghost of a voice broke through the white noise, taunting him as he continued to explore the available airwaves.

"... was Heuy Lewis and-"

"Ah!" There it was.

Turning the dial back a bit, the radio finally came to life. A cheerful, male voice was talking over the end of _The Power of Love_. Sewell leaned back against his chair, satisfied, and veered his car to the right, finally exiting the country lane. Another song began to play as he approached the town, but it was completely lost on him; he wasn't much of a listener to modern music, preferring instead to listen to what were referred to nowadays as 'Golden Oldies'. Talk about making a guy feel like the wrong side of middle-aged.

"... That was Mary Elizabeth McGlynn with _Tender Sugar_. She's a new kid on the block, but I, for one, see her going far. What do you guys think? She a swimmer or a sinker?"

Through the thick sheet of rain, Sewell could just make out the town; a row of crooked silhouettes beyond the veil of fog.

"... hope the weather's not getting y'all too down in the dumps. I always enjoy a bit o' rain, so long as I'm lookin' out at it from a nice, warm, cosy studio, that is. Now, we're coming to the end o' the dedication hour, but we got time for a couple more, I think."

Sewell glanced to his left as he pulled into the town. There were a row of boarded up buildings, their drives littered with large piles of waste. A few of the shop windows had been smashed in, but the shelves looked far from bare. As a kid, Sewell had heard his fair share of ghost stories about this place; he'd never taken it very seriously, but as he drove through the deserted street, he found himself ill at ease, not because the town was indeed empty, but because parts of it just looked like the people had up and fled, leaving everything behind. He tried to recall the old stories, sifting through the memories for an explanation to the town's current abandonment, but nothing was forthcoming.

"... now our final dedication is goin' out to a very special guy, corrections officer George Sewell-"

Sewell's awareness of anything outside of that cheerful voice on the radio vanished entirely at the mention of his name.

"-Apparently, George has been going through somethin' of a rough patch recently. But hey, if you're listenin', buddy, ya got friends here wishin' you well."

_What the fuck_ was the only valid response running through Sewell's head as he listened.

"So this one's for you, George, with love from Jack-Knife and the boys at the Overlook Penitentiary. Enjoy it, my good man."

His eyes went wide at the mention of the cons, and suddenly it was like being back at the cabin as his mind assaulted him with memories he knew he'd never forget for as long as he lived. But then the music came on and he was taken beyond that night in the woods; beyond his time at Ryall State and all of his transgressions against the inmates; all the way back to his childhood in Brahms-and _that _was far worse.

_"Loneliness is a cloak you wear. A deep shade of blue is always there."_

With his eyes glued firmly to the radio as if it held the answers to the slew of questions running through his mind, Sewell was far too distracted to notice that his car was veering away from the road.

_"The sun ain't gonna shine any more, the moon ain't gonna rise in the sky, the tears are always clouding your eyes-"_

The car hit the curb and finally Sewell looked up. The shadow of a building fell over the bonnet of the car and he realised far too late that he was heading straight for it. In his panic, he twisted the steering wheel the wrong way-

_"-when you're without love-"_

_-_and collided instead with the neighbouring store-front. His seatbelt offered no protection from the force of the crash, and Sewell's face connected violently with the steering wheel; he was unconscious upon impact.

* * *

When Sewell eventually started to come to his senses, several things became apparent. The first thing he noticed was that he was no longer in the car; soft cotton sheets and plush pillows were supporting him. The second thing he noticed was the pain; white hot bolts of pain running from his temples to his torso, shooting waves of agony across flesh and muscle. The final thing he noticed-and the most concerning-was that he wasn't alone. Someone was speaking. His thoughts were hauled back to the radio dedication and all at once he was numb; what if the cons were in here with him, waiting for him to wake up so that they could ruin him all over again?

After the night in the cabin, Sewell had been determined to find the three of them and make them pay, but it had never happened. He'd come up with one excuse after another until eventually he'd run out of excuses, and all that was left was the truth, that he was terrified of seeing them again.

He sucked in a lungful of air, braced himself for the onslaught of pain, and sat up. His head pounded in retaliation, but he managed to swallow the groan back down. When he opened his eyes, they stung and he saw blood was dripping onto his hands from somewhere on his face. It didn't matter.

"... I'm still here, yeah."

He looked around, ignoring the way his vision blotted and blurred, and tried to find the source of the voice.

Murphy Pendleton was staring right back at him from across the room. When their eyes locked, he pulled a face and gestured with his hand to the cellphone held up to his ear. Sewell just blinked back at him, he was too surprised to say anything even if he'd wanted to.

"Well, no-one comes here. It's fine." Murphy rested against the kitchen counter-top, frowning. Behind him, Sewell took in the apartment door with some alarm; there were several chains and a padlock running across it. He looked around the rest of the room; there were a couple of books strewn across the coffee table, most of which looked entirely illegible; an old television set sat against a far wall, next to it a bookcase with a radio on one of its shelves and the rest dedicated to photography. He turned back to Murphy, who was now fiddling around with one of the chains across the door.

"Look, I've been staying here a while now, it's fine. Nobody knows about me. If you've got a better suggestion than, well, a town _everybody _avoids, I'm all ears."

Sewell turned back to the television set, from this angle he could see himself on its unpolished surface. The only clear detail he could make out was that his hair was all over the place; that actually annoyed him more than the current pain he was feeling. He brushed his hands across his scalp, slicking his bangs back in place, and then he attempted to get to his feet. His first endeavour resulted in him falling back on his ass when the blood rushed to his head and made the room swim before his eyes. His second endeavour had him lurching forwards several steps and hitting the wall next to the television. He caught sight of Murphy turning around to face him at the commotion.

"Look, I gotta go," he said tersely, "I'll call you back later." He placed the cell atop the kitchen counter and took a step forward, looking both annoyed and uncertain.

"You need to sit back down." he said eventually.

Sewell clutched the edge of the wall. "What the _fuck _are you doing here?" he demanded. Murphy was certainly preferable to the cons, but his appearance in this otherwise deserted town was still somewhat unnerving.

"I could ask you the same question." said Murphy.

Sewell pushed back against the wall until he was standing upright and unassisted. He fixed his swollen eyes on Murphy, holding the man's gaze. He didn't look much different to the last time they'd met, but why would he? It had been less than a month ago after all; it just felt much longer. Thinking about the last time they'd seen each other made Sewell's cheeks burn and his stomach squirm so he put it to the back of his mind.

When it became clear that he wasn't going to answer his question, Murphy shrugged his shoulders with a frown and headed into the kitchenette. He turned on the taps and grabbed a cloth from the side. "This is where I've been hiding," he said after a moment, "it's the best place I could think of. There's not really anybody here, so... ya know... less chance of getting caught and hauled back to jail." He turned back to Sewell and approached.

Sewell didn't have the chance to protest before a hand was cupping his chin and tilting his head back. Murphy applied the cloth above his eye, rubbing it in soft, circular motions. Sewell considered pushing him away and telling him that he could do that himself, but he decided to let it slide; Murphy's hands felt soft against his cheek.

"So, are you gonna tell me what you're doing here?"

He closed his eyes, allowing Murphy to run the cloth gently across the bruised lids. "I was trying to get to Brahms," he answered, "didn't work out so well."

"I can see that," said Murphy with a laugh.

Sewell allowed himself a smile, which vanished the moment his brain reminded him of the song dedication. He jerked away, his eyes snapping open. Murphy stared back at him, a confused look on his face and his hand still aloft with the bloodied cloth hanging in it. "You O.K?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"You... you said you've been staying here?" asked Sewell, his voice uncharacteristically meek, "So you know the place pretty well?"

Murphy shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

Sewell chewed at his lip; he didn't know if he wanted an answer to the question on the tip of his tongue.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not!" Sewell snapped, "I just fucking _crashed_-"

"Whoa, whoa, O.K, dumb question, I'm sorry." said Murphy quickly. "I just meant, well, you looked concerned about something."

Sewell limped back over to the sofa and sat down. Hie eyes fell upon the sheets that had been set atop the cushions, presumably to provide a little more comfort. His stomach squirmed again. Murphy stayed where he was, staring down at him and looking uncertain.

"Is there a prison here, Murphy?"

"Yeah," answered Murphy evenly, "but like the rest of the town, there's nothing there."

"What's it called?"

"I, um, I'm not sure why you wanna know this-"

"Just answer the damn question!"

"It's the Overlook, but I don't see why you wanna know about that place."

Sewell rested back against the cushions. The pain in his head was lessening, but in its place his stomach was knotting and twisting almost painfully. He covered his eyes with his hands, digging the heels against the bruised lids. "There's definitely nobody there?" he asked.

"There's nobody anywhere, Sewell." something in his voice, a telling quake at the end of each word told Sewell that Murphy wasn't as sure as he was making himself out to be. "Why do you want to know about that place anyway?"

"You got a car, Murphy?" asked Sewell, deliberately changing the subject. "I've got to be in Brahms today, and obviously my car is fucked."

"Yeah, I've, I've got a car. Well, I've got plenty."

Sewell peeked up at him through his fingers, arching his brow. Murphy smiled back at him sheepishly, "I don't know if you noticed," he started to say, brushing a hand through his hair, "but the town's full of 'em. I managed to get a few working."

Sewell struggled back to his feet, staggering. Murphy quickly made to help him, but he shook his head and held out a hand. "I'm fine," he muttered, "just give me a minute."

"We should probably get you to a hospital, you might have concussion. It looks pretty bad anyway." said Murphy, converned.

Sewell nodded; it _felt _pretty bad. "Yeah, fine, just, just get me the fuck outta this town. You'll drive me, right?"

Murphy smiled again. "I'm hardly gonna let you drive yourself." he answered. And with that, he turned and approached the chained door, fishing a key out from his pocket. He glanced back over at Sewell when the man didn't follow.

"Did you chain yourself up from the inside?" asked Sewell incredulously.

"Murphy looked back at the padlock in his hands, then again to Sewell. "No, it was like this when I got here. Well, it had a different padlock, I just knocked that off and put a different one on."

Sewell stared at him, eyes wide and brows arched with disbelief. "Why?" he asked.

Murphy shrugged, unlocking the chains and pulling them away from the door. "I dunno," he muttered, "they just make me feel a little safer, I guess." He opened the door, pulling it far to the side and gesturing for Sewell to go out first.

Outside, in the corridor, the building showed signs of severe disrepair. The air was damp and musty, and several cardboard boxes and bags of rubbish were piled up at the far end near the staircase. He turned to Murphy, watching him lock the door back up (albeit in a more conventional manner on this side).

Murphy led the way through the apartment and back out onto the street where it was still pouring it down, and now considerably darker. Sewell looked around the area for any sign of his car, he couldn't see it. He checked his pockets upon remembering his cellphone, there was nothing there. He was about to open his mouth to ask Murphy to take him back to his car, when the man held out his hand, a familiar looking device resting in his palm. Sewell took it with a murmured 'thanks' and wondered briefly whether or not he should give his brother a call. He decided against it; David was probably stressing out enough about a great number of other things, without the need for Sewell to add more to the pile with details of the crash.

When Murphy turned away to move ahead, Sewell grabbed at his arm, pulling him back. "I didn't thank you," he said quickly, his face heating up with embarrassment. It wasn't often he expressed gratitude for anything, whether it was deserved or not.

Murphy looked back at him, nonplussed.

"You dragged me all the way to your apartment from my car." Sewell went on awkwardly, "So, uh, thanks for that."

Murphy was slow to respond. A strange look passed across his face, not unlike alarm. "Let's just get you out of here," he said after a long pause, then he turned and headed for the opposite side of the street. Sewell followed him, his limp enough of a hindrance that when Murphy noticed him straggling behind slightly, he slowed his own pace and even went so far as to put a hand to his elbow to support him.

Sewell was oblivious to a great many things as they walked through the town (but the fingers curled around his elbow, steadying him, was not one of them); his mind was fixated on the cons and if they really were here or if he'd just imagined the whole thing, it had seemed real enough, real enough that he didn't actually want to go back to his car for the rest of his belongings. But if he had been paying attention to Murphy, he might have noticed how concerned the man looked, and if he had noticed this and questioned him about it, Murphy might have set the record straight and told him _exactly_ how it was that he'd happened upon Sewell's unconscious body in the town.

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**A/N: Murphy wasn't even supposed to come into this chapter until the very end, but the first versions weren't working, and I struggle to write scenes with just a single character in it (it's hard enough with two, but at least you get interaction with two). I'll try my best to provide a much better 6th chapter and, of course, get the smut XD **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the favs/follows/reviews. I really appreciate each one, and I'm so happy people are enjoying this! From now on, I'll be writing some of the chapters from Murphy's perspective, this is one of them. Also, sorry it's short, but I thought I'd write a mini-chapter to make up for such a delay on chapter 5. Hope you enjoy it!**

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Murphy knew exactly why he was helping Sewell, and it wasn't entirely out of sympathy for the man; it was for _himself_. His life had spiralled out of control the day he'd vowed revenge against Napier; he'd made his choices and they had been wrong. He could blame a whole lot on Sewell, but the decisions had been entirely his own to make, and really, that was what it all came down to.

So from now on, he planned to make much better decisions. He'd seen for himself what revenge could do to a person, and if his own experience hadn't been conviction enough, all Murphy had to do was recount the night Anne had paid him a visit and gone into explicit detail about everything that had happened the night she'd fed Sewell to the wolves.

She had gotten payback for her father that night, but it had come with a price; she had a haunted look about her these days, and an anger at the world that made her lash out. Murphy didn't think she had anyone in her life to reel her in, to tell her that everything would be all right, and that time would heal her pain. He had tried to be that person, but his heart just hadn't been in it. Every time he looked at her, he saw something monstrous; time had yet to heal his own anguish at her hands.

Murphy wanted, more than anything, to be a man his son would have been proud to call 'daddy'. He wanted to be the type of man Frank had been. Anne wasn't in the right state to follow in her father's footsteps, but Murphy liked to think that he was strong enough, _clear _enough to take her place. It took a lot of patience to see through such dedication, but it was something Murphy was gaining day by day. Helping Sewell would be his biggest test, and yet considering the way the man was limping almost helplessly (ha) by his side, Murphy felt that his pity was going to go a long way in breaking down the years of pent-up anger.

Murphy was willing to help Sewell out of the town, but that didn't mean that there wouldn't be _obstacles _to overcome. Silent Hill had a habit of snatching people up into its web; Murphy had come to learn this during his stay in the town. He'd seen people come, and some of them had managed to leave. But not all of them. He had come to appreciate what the town had shown him; he had learned a lot about himself when he'd crashed here, and despite his relief to leave, he had soon found himself wandering back. Now that the town was done with him, it was actually quite welcoming. Almost like home.

"Jesus Christ," came Sewell's voice, "how far away is this damn car of yours?"

Murphy looked to his left, his eyes falling first to his own hand still cupping Sewell's elbow in support. Then he looked up, and he almost jumped back in shock when he saw the state of the man's face. It was, well... a _mess_. There were fresh bruises all over it, having seemingly blossomed out of nowhere; his dark eyes looked puffier than they had done back at the apartment, the left one looked especially black and swollen and Murphy wondered if he could even see out of it. Across his nose a deep gash ran horizontal before tapering out in the middle of a gaunt cheek. Then there were his lips, an almost inviting rouge and thick at each corner. It looked as though somebody had given the man a beating and neither of them had noticed it happening.

"You listenin'?" asked Sewell impatiently, his voice course and thick. Murphy saw that new bruises had bloomed across his neck too, all the way around the column of his throat. The pattern looked almost identical to a hand-print. He reached out, unable to contain his sudden curiosity, and slipped his fingers across the tender flesh, exploring each bruise with a delicate, ghost-like touch. Sewell jerked back in surprise, but he said nothing, even as his eyes widened and Murphy continued to run his hand along the spatter of deep rouge and midnight blue.

It struck Murphy then, as he curled his fingers loosely around Sewell's windpipe, that the man was going out on a limb by trusting him; this fact warmed him pleasantly in the pits of his stomach, and he recalled the night his hands had ventured lower and the sounds Sewell had made, and the heat intensified. He withdrew his hand before he acted out any further, and watched Sewell's eyes flutter before hardening as a scowl formed across his battered face.

"The fuck was that about?" he asked, his words lacking the bite Murphy was sure he probably wanted to display.

"Nothing." said Murphy, and then, "The car's up at the gas station. It'll take us about ten minutes." He moved on ahead, gaining several feet before stopping when he noticed that the only footfalls he heard were his own. When he turned back, he found Sewell staring at him with an expression on his face that Murphy couldn't place.

"Did you want to?" he asked, and this time there was an edge to his voice. A tremble laced between his words that Murphy had only ever heard when the man was about to lose his composure.

For a moment, Murphy just stared right back at him. Then he shrugged and shook his head, indicating that he had absolutely no idea what Sewell was talking about.

Sewell's face darkened. "_Kill me_." he hissed. "Did you want to, just then?"

Murphy frowned; he wasn't sure how many more times he'd have the patience for this line of conversation. He thought everything had been cleared up well enough the night he'd paid Sewell a visit. Clearly not. The guy was either stupid or paranoid, Murphy was guessing it was the latter.

"If I'd have wanted to kill you, I would have done it when you were unconscious." he answered honestly. "I already told you last time that I'm done with that path. As far as I'm concerned, the slate's clean."

He thought about telling Sewell how his injuries had gotten inexplicably worse, but for a reason he couldn't quite grasp, he found himself unable to do so. Just like he's been unable to tell him how he'd really come across him in the town. It felt somehow wrong, as if the timing just wasn't right at all. Murphy suspected he'd be telling Sewell a lot of things in due time, as soon as Silent Hill opened his mind up a little.

"Why should I believe you?" That tremble in his voice was waning.

"I honestly don't care if you do or don't," said Murphy with a frown. "and I'm not gonna stand here and explain myself again. I've already told you that I'm moving on with my life, that includes moving past _you _and what _you did_. If that's not enough, I'll hand you the keys to my car and you can see just how far you get by yourself." With that, Murphy turned and started to walk.

At first there was only the sound of his own sneakers scuffing against the cement, but then another pair of feet cautiously followed, the gait uneven and heavy. Sewell's limp was getting worse.

Murphy slowed to a crawl and waited. When Sewell was back at his side, he slipped his hand around to the man's lower back, ignoring the grumbled protest and muttered "I'm not a fuckin' cripple." he received for his efforts.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **First of all, I am so, so sorry for how late this update is. I will try to get back on track with updating every couple of weeks, but rest assured, I haven't abandoned this. Secondly, I'm so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to write such amazing reviews, I can't tell you how much I appreciate them. Anyway, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes I missed in this, and hopefully the next chapter will be a lot longer.

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The walk to the gas station should have taken no more than ten minutes. With Sewell's limp, and Murphy's constant insistence that he take five, the trek took the better part of an hour. They were soaked to the bone by the time they reached the banged up vehicle parked outside. Every little twitch and twinge ached, setting their joints on fire, and Sewell was damn sure he'd felt this bad before.

"It's not ready to go yet." said Murphy. He had his arms wrapped tight around his torso, his teeth chattering. Above him, the single light basked him in a grim miasma of shadows. "I still have to change the tire and fill 'er up. It shouldn't take too long, but..." He turned to look down at Sewell, who was leaning against an empty oil barrel, staring down at the dim glow of his cell phone with a frown on his bruised face. "... but maybe you should call whoever it is that's waiting for you."

Sewell glanced up. He looked pale and tired, and in the darkness and the rain, Murphy saw nothing of the cruelty he knew the man to be capable of. "What makes you think any one's waitin' for me?" he asked, his tone unmistakably accusatory.

Murphy managed a half-smile. "You've been looking at that phone on and off since we left the apartment." he said. "I figured maybe, maybe someone's expecting you."

Pocketing the device, Sewell turned back to watch the rain as it turned the ground to sludge, and the bonnets of vehicles into instruments. A thick fog was gathering. "I'm supposed to be at my brother's." he said at length. "He wants me to help him arrange our mom's funeral." The shadow of a smile graced his swollen lips, "If I'm honest, I don't think any one really wants me there. I don't have a great history with certain members of the family."

Murphy hadn't expected such an honest answer, not from a guy like Sewell. "I'm uh, I'm sorry. About your mom, I mean." he said, unsure of what else he could offer.

"Don't be." muttered Sewell. He smirked, the corners of his mouth inflamed and bloody, "I'm not even sure yet if I am."

Murphy watched the man for a moment, watched the way his pulse jumped beneath the bruised spatter of his neck, and watched the telling tremble of his hands as he they fumbled around at the pockets of his damp trousers. He didn't know how much help he was going to be for him, not when his body was getting steadily worse with each passing minute. He recalled Anne's delight the night she had come to him, describing in great detail every aspect of Sewell's beating. The way the C.O looked now was a lot like the picture Murphy had gotten in his head as he endured Cunningham's boasting.

Something definitely didn't add up, that was for sure. And if Murphy wanted any more convincing that the town was toying with the man, he only had to dig into his pockets to fish out the note he had stored there. He hadn't found Sewell by his car, he'd found the man dumped on a trash-heap on Nathan Avenue, with a lined sheet of paper pinned to his chest. It read: _the past is strapped to our backs_.

"So how long are we gonna stand around?" asked Sewell, his voice barely higher than a whisper. The hand-shaped imprint along the column of his throat had darkened. If the man suspected that something wasn't quite right, he was doing one hell of a job of hiding it. Murphy expected no less, for Sewell to acknowledge that there was a problem would be a little too much like asking for help. Even after the beating it had taken these last few years, his ego could still afford to be taken down a notch or two.

"Not long," said Murphy, "a little less than an hour. You might as well wait inside, it's probably a lot warmer than standing around out here." He tried to look casual as he considered whether or not his next words would be taken the wrong way. He decided to risk it, and added, as off-handedly as he could, "You look about ready to collapse."

"I'm fine." was Sewell's sharp response. Although he didn't sound entirely too convinced.

Resisting the urge to run his hand along the bruises marring the man's throat, Murphy instead brought his twitching fingers to his shoulder. It was bonier than he had expected. "You're not fine." he insisted, keeping his own murky eyes trained on Sewell's dark ones, "You're gonna need to get checked out at a hospital as soon as we're on the road." He squeezed his shoulder, feeling the muscle shift under his grip. Sewell made a poor show of hiding the wince, but he didn't pull away.

"I'll be as quick as I can with the car, but you really do need to take a seat some place. Your leg's bad enough, you don't want it getting worse."

Much to his surprise, Sewell gave in without a fight. Murphy released his grip on the man and shifted aside, allowing him to pass through into the gas station. The door squawked loudly as he forced it open several inches before slipping in. The wood beneath his boots creaked and squealed. Murphy watched him haul himself up onto the counter-top, his legs dangling half a foot above the floor. With his lip swollen to the point of pouting, he almost looked like a reprimanded child as he sat there in the gloom.

When Sewell spotted him staring, he looked immediately disgruntled. "What are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Get on with it!"

Murphy didn't miss the mumbled 'asshole' that followed as he turned away and headed towards the car.

The vehicle had been one of the only ones he'd managed to salvage in the town. It was a 1987 AMC Grand Wagoneer; his father had had one of them back when Murphy had been a teenager. It was a little worse for wear on the exterior, its bonnet looked like it had taken a beaten, and the passenger side door didn't quite shut properly, but it was mostly aesthetic damage. The back right tire had a puncture in it somewhere. Rather than try and find it, Murphy figured it would be simpler to just replace the thing.

As he started to work on unfixing the back tire, Murphy allowed himself to think about his boy. Charlie had always been an eager kid to learn; it didn't matter what it was, whether he was hearing about cars, or the history of his country, or something as silly as how many bon-bons his mom could fit in her mouth, he'd always been a glutton for finding out new things. Murphy remembered the look on Carol's face-the one that always won her the arguments-when she heard Charlie boasting about how he was going to be just like his old man. She'd never liked the idea of her son having as little ambition in life as her husband. She'd told Charlie that he could be anything, and it had been true. But now-now-

He clenched his hands, head hanging low. Sometimes the pain was as fresh as it the day they'd pulled his tiny body out from the river.

"Fuck. Fuckin' piece o' shit!"

He glanced up, looking back towards the open doorway of the gas station. He waited a beat, and then, "Everything all right in there?" he called. Truthfully, he was glad for the distraction.

There was no response for the longest moment, just the sound of stiff buttons clicking. "Phone's busted." was the eventual answer. "Can't get a connection."

Sewell must have given in to the temptation to call for help. Murphy wasn't entirely surprised that he couldn't reach an outside line from here, he usually had trouble getting a signal himself, a problem which remained even after Silent Hill had concluded its business with him. The town had been abandoned for quite a while, he guessed most people had up and left long before the phone companies started erecting their masts here, there and everywhere.

Although he knew that it wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference, Murphy still felt obliged to help. "You wanna try mine?" he called. He half-expected Sewell to refuse out of some form of wounded pride, but seconds later the man came limping out of the station's dark lobby with his hand extended. Murphy reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell, and reached up to pass it over. Sewell didn't take it.

When Murphy looked up at him in question, he saw an expression on his face that he'd never-not even in a million years-expect to see; he looked absolutely terrified. His eyes were practically jittering, wide and alarmed and fixed on a point of the street farther ahead. He took an unstable step backwards, his whole balance off as he tried to put weight on his bad leg.

Murphy followed his gaze and found himself looking at a large, black dog sitting in the middle of the road. It was the size of a Great Dane, its coat thick and coarse and clinging to its muscled limbs as the rain came down hard. It was staring right back at them-

-No, that wasn't quite right, thought Murphy. It wasn't staring at _them_, It was staring at Sewell.


	8. Chapter 8

The dog was across the street and tearing into Sewell's upper thigh before Murphy even realised the beast had moved. He twisted around, following the after-blur of movement, the wet trail of paws in sludge, and laid his eyes on the steps leading into the gas station. Sewell was struggling to pry the mutt's jaws apart, a frantic, borderline panicked look on his face. Even his swollen eye was wide and alarmed, and fixated on the steady press of teeth burrowing through his own flesh.

Murphy watched him rear back his free leg, and kick. The dog growled as the blow struck him hard in the middle of its skull, but it did not let go. In retaliation it seemed only to crush its jaws tighter, the decayed white of sharp fangs disappearing beneath ripped fabric and the steady gush of blood as skin was broken. Sewell threw back his head, a cry of pained anguish tumbling from his lips as he tried to land a second blow.

It finally dawned on his legs what his eyes were seeing, and Murphy sprang into action. He went first for the beast's barrel-shaped torso, attempting to wrap its arms around it girth and simply heave it up and off, but the creature was having none of that; it shook violently, its bank-end rearing up and kicking out, loosening the fragile grip Murphy had gained. He fell away into the sludge, grunting. Something cold touched the tips of his fingers in the dirt.

"Get-Get it off o' me!" Sewell was pleading, voice strained and breathless. There was blood on his own hands as he fought against the cracked incisors buried in the sinew of his leg. Murphy caught his eye, swollen and black and desperate. "_Please_!" Sewell was well beyond the point of hiding just how afraid he was, it was in the way his body jerked and trembled, and the way his lips quivered as blow after blow at the heels of his boot refused to budge the grip this thing had on him.

But Murphy was overcome with an entirely different urge, as he held the man's gaze. There was pity, and there was sympathy, but more than that he felt _desire_. Seeing the C.O like this, wet-eyed, powerless and afraid, it bypassed his heart entirely and sent a jolt of interest straight to his cock.

"Muph-" Whatever plea Sewell might have been attempting died in place of a shriek; the dog had tugged him down the steps and was beginning to drag him through the sludge, away from the station door. He stretched out, arms flailing as they struggled to find purchase and pull away. Murphy reacted quicker this time, jumping forwards to grab Sewell's grasping hands. The grip was weak, wet with mud and rain, but he tightened his hold and jerked back. Over the shrill cry of pain, the sound of fabric splitting could be heard.

Their eyes locked again, and Murphy could see in Sewell's dark ones the doubt and the despair. He felt his stomach flutter, his legs were like jelly under him, and he was getting the most inappropriate hard-on of his life. He caught himself, grounding his thoughts in the here and now, and pulled back with all the strength he had in him.

At the same time, Sewell aimed another kick. The dog jerked and whimpered as the heel of his boot caught the soft white of its eye hidden under its dirty mane. It was enough of an opening for Murphy to drag the C.O free. Sewell immediately stumbled back up the steps, the bells above the door jingling as he threw himself through into the relative safety of the gas station. And maybe it was the wind, or the sound of the rain against metal, but it sounded to Murphy like maybe the man had sobbed as staggered away.

Lying in the dirt where he had been knocked back, Murphy spotted what had touched his hand. A rusted wrench lay there, half submerged in a puddle of dirty water. He leaped for it as the dog proceeded to chase after Sewell, growling and barking at ruined remains of the door that blocked its path. Murphy heard Sewell from the other side, too far in to be braced against the thin plywood, but he couldn't make out anything intelligible. He took advantage of the creature's momentary distraction, managing to sneak up on it and land the first blow before it yowled and turned its attention to him, snapping its stained maw in rage.

Again, Murphy landed a blow, this time hitting the beast hard atop its skull. It _shrieked _and leaped forward in retaliation, taking him down into the sludge where it went straight for his throat. If it hadn't been for his experience dealing with similar monstrosities in this town, Murphy suspected he'd be watching his vocal chords ripped out in front of him, but he'd faced his own monsters in Silent Hill, and this one was for Sewell. So he held the thing back, pushing his fist into its jugular and holding it away, and with his other hand he struck it once, twice, and a third time across the eye. It whimpered and whined, but conceded, rolling away and bounding back across the street from the direction it had come.

Still on his back, Murphy watched it round a corner and disappear from sight entirely.

He stayed like that for a moment, content to let the rain wash the grime from his body, even as he still lay in it. There was blood on his hands, drying between his fingers, and when he brought them to his nose, sniffing curiously, he was assaulted by the bitter scent of rust and copper. He let the wrench slip from his grasp, it made a wet _slop _as it hit a puddle of rain water, and struggled upright. The dirt, heavy from the damp, dragged him down as he braced himself against an empty oil drum and heaved himself to his feet. A cold chill settled deep in his bones and he headed towards the shelter of the gas station, eager to warm up and dry off, but he paused instead at the doorway, pressing his face against the cold slab of its perimeter, and tried to gather himself.

He was still hard. Hearing Sewell cry out for his help, it was everything he'd ever dreamed about for so long after Frank. And although his opinion had changed on the matter over time, as the years ate away at the anger and injustice he felt, he couldn't deny that the thought of having the C.O powerless, _submissive, _and put in his place, was one that his libido very much appreciated.

Sewell glanced at him when he finally did enter. He was at the far end of the station, cushioned within stacks of rubbish and debris, as far back in the shadows as he had managed to work himself before his spine encountered wall. He was clutching his thigh, wincing. "You..." he gasped, "... fucking _moron_."

It was comforting to know that he was in a good enough state to be angry and offended. Murphy stepped over the threshold and closed the door, shutting out the ongoing downpour. A single column of light hit the corner where Sewell was hiding, and he flinched from it, his gaze momentarily unfocused as it drifted sharply across the expanse of the store, in search of anything else that might take a leap at him.

As Murphy drew closer, Sewell's gaze sharpened and fixed itself once more solely on him. He pressed himself flush with the wall, his uncertainty was clear in the way his fingers twitched as though to grasp for something to wield. No doubt he had convinced himself that Murphy's lack of reaction when the dog had attacked was not borne of surprise, but of a momentary satisfaction.

"I'm sorry." said Murphy. But he wasn't. Not really. Not when he had Sewell looking so vulnerable just inches in front of him. Not for the first time, he was inclined to press his palm against the man's colourful neck. He did so, his touch gentle-his intentions? Not so much. He let the pads of his fingers drift across the expanse of skin, keeping his gaze trained on Sewell, who looked at once afraid, but entirely interested.

"How's your leg doing?" he asked.

His fingers had reached the open collar of Sewell's shirt. They plucked idly at a loose button.

"It'd be a lot fuckin' better if you'd been quicker." was the heated, eventual response. Followed by a sharp intake of breath those fingers delved beyond cloth and wandered the bruised plane of skin beneath. "_Dumbass._" Despite the man's tone of voice, Murphy wasn't blind to the way Sewell's body relaxed under his touch.

It was by no means the time nor the place for this, with Silent Hill's first move of the game still out there, alive and seething and no doubt ready for round two, but Murphy couldn't bring himself to care much. Getting Sewell out of the town had dropped from his high list of priorities for the day. Getting Sewell _off, _however, was ranking quite high.

"There's no blood." whispered Sewell, so quiet Murphy almost didn't catch it.

He paused his wandering hand, resting his palm against skin just beginning to heat as arousal set in.

"What?" He saw nothing _but _blood when he looked at Sewell's beaten face (and that's what it was; someone had taken him from his car and given him the hiding of his life, Murphy would stake his life on it). He followed his gaze downwards, past the un-tucked shirt stained with mud and all other manners of filth, to the trembling hand clasped tight around the top of wounded thigh. Even under the thin shaft of light, Murphy saw no signs of an attack. The fabric of his jeans was intact, and so too, it seemed, was the limb covered within. The sight produced a question in his own mind, and he retracted his hand from Sewell's shirt to gaze between his fingers where the rust and the blood had begun to cake outside. There was nothing there.

For a moment, Murphy found himself alarmed and confused, but it was brief collapse in his assurance when he recalled almost immediately all the other strange things this town had thrown at him. A disappearing wound was little enough to raise a brow at. For Sewell, however, this was probably enough that he was beginning to question his own sanity.

He considered showing Sewell the note that he had found attached to him, but one look at the pleading in his eyes; the want for consolation and reassurance, and he decided that it was something to save for another time. No need to feed the fires of his growing paranoia.

"That happened right? You hit that thing, it was real? I didn't just-" he floundered for a moment, his mouth working in silence as his brain tried too hard to figure it out.

Murphy didn't answer-how could he? Even he didn't know what had happened. Instead, he pressed his body flush with Sewell's, earning a bark of surprise, and placed a kiss against the trembling pulse of his throat. His tenderness was rewarded first with a weakened shove against his shoulders, that turned into a desperate clutch in the folds of his shirt when he added teeth and sucked gently at the wounded expanse. It quickly became obvious that Sewell was an easy man to distract. He smiled at the begrudging surrender of hands circling his back in loose embrace.

He rolled his hips then, as he traced a path of kisses to the shell of Sewell's ear, and curled his hands around his sides to slide down to his ass. The answering pressure of nails in his shoulders drove Murphy to tighten his hold, his fingers curving into the shape. He'd been hoping to see how far this _thing _between them would go, and wondered how Sewell would react if he forced him to face the wall and took him there and then.

He imagined there would be a fight; Sewell would feel obligated to press his own dominance, but wounded as he was, there would be little challenge to pinning him down and getting him to submit. Murphy flushed at the thought, and in his eagerness to bring their bodies closer, he managed to twist them until Sewell clambered backwards into a pile of old tires, cursing and spitting when he landed hard on his tailbone. Murphy wasted no time in sliding between the man's open legs and resuming his exploration of every inch of him. He pressed his hands to the waistband of Sewell's trousers and tugged at the zipper.

He managed to get them an inch over Sewell's hips before a hand flew out to grasp his wrist.

In question, he glanced up. Sewell's face was flushed, his mouth parted and a look of surprise in his dark eyes. There was lust there too, dark and obvious as they steadied their focus.

"Murphy." his voice breathless, an unsure protest in his tone. "Am I going crazy?"

Murphy stilled. So, Sewell had more focus in him than he'd give him credit for. He kept his hands at the waistband of his trousers, tugging at them almost imperceptibly; he was horny, and if he wanted this to go somewhere, he needed to choose his next words wisely. Wisely likely meant foregoing his own experiences in Silent Hill, at least for now.

He settled for a firm "No", and pulled more deliberately at the fabric in his hands. Sewell glared and tightened his grip, but he allowed Murphy to continue until his trousers were at his knees.

The oversized shirt did little to hide the man's prominent interest in this, but Murphy looked past the straining erection and found his eyes resting on the old scar tissue of his inner thigh, exactly where the dog had bitten him. When he glanced up, Sewell had arched his brow, a cold look on his face. "That _thing_ couldn't have been real." he spat, his grip on Murphy's wrist beginning to tremble. "I _killed _it. I bashed its fucking head in with an axe."

The alarmed confusion must have shown on Murphy's face, for Sewell huffed and pressed on, "I was seven years old when my dad came home one day with that thing."

Given any other time, Murphy would have been eager to find out all he could about Sewell, but it seemed ridiculous for a heart to heart right now, with both of their dicks standing tall and unsatisfied. Nevertheless, he hid his disappointment well as he started to lean back.

Sewell's grip just tightened around him. "_I didn't tell you to stop_." he hissed.

Murphy didn't think he had ever been harder in his life.


End file.
